


Sometimes Blessings

by voleuse



Category: Angel: the Series, Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-09-02
Updated: 2004-09-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 06:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/38863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voleuse/pseuds/voleuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not all heathen gods curse him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometimes Blessings

**Author's Note:**

> Set after the first POTC movie, but before "Time Bomb."

On some days, and on this day in particular, when the winds slow and the crew grows restless, Captain Jack Sparrow anchors the Black Pearl by a deserted atoll. The crew rows ashore, along with a goodly amount of rum, and the evening sky is lightened by their bonfires and revelry.

As the night wanes, however, Jack slips away from the crew, now delightfully drunk, and follows the shore's line, that hazy place where land meets sea. He walks away, and away, until the laughter of the pirates is a mere tinkle of merriment, and his beloved Pearl is a decorative trinket in the corner of his eye, in the way he thinks a conscience might look, if anyone could prove it existed.

And before him is only the sky and the sea. He breathes in, and thinks this is something like prayer.

On this night, particularly, Jack sits back on his heels and raises his arms to the sky, spilling half his bottle onto the sand. He tilts as he watches the rum trickle into the ocean, tilts too far and falls sideways, where he stretches and rolls like a kitten at hunt.

"This is an odd sacrifice."

Jack rolls, takes in the impossible, then rubs his eyes, wondering whether, just this once, he's had a tad too much rum. When the being is still before him, he grins. _Never too much rum._

He returns his attention to the being in front of him. "How is it, lass, that you're made out of ocean?"

He thinks it's a reasonable question, though the female-shaped spout of water might be eyeing him skeptically. If it had eyes, that is. Not that non-eyed beings can't be skeptical, just the same.

"I traverse the dimensions at will, in whatever form I choose." The seawater wavers, thickens, and solidifies into solid flesh. _Naked_ flesh. "Is this form more pleasing to your eye?"

"Pleasing." Jack lets his gaze drift a bit, before returning his attention to her more-blank-than-skeptical face. "You could say so."

The girl-formerly-composed-of-seawater turns her attention to the ocean, spinning slowly around, taking in the view and, by happenstance, providing Jack with quite a view of his own.

"This seems an empty world." She crouches next to Jack, and he averts his eyes, like any gentleman of piratical persuasion would. "Where are the," she tilts her head, "the cities? The hordes?"

"You won't find any of those here, love," Jack grins, and shakes his bottle experimentally before tipping it back, savoring a swallow of rum before returning his attention to the conversation. "Just myself and the sea. And you," he adds, "of course."

She takes the bottle from his hand, snatching it so quickly he isn't able to form a protest. "From one world to another, I encounter the same drunkards." She tosses the bottle to the sand. "I find it tiresome."

"Well, then." Jack slithers across the sand and grabs the bottle, righting it before its contents empty. "You've obviously never partaken of the nectar."

"I have no need for intoxication." She stands again, and Jack tilts his head back, admiring the view. "It is a human affectation."

"No offense, love," Jack responds, "but you look rather human yourself, at the moment."

"My vessel is human." Her lip curls with something like disgust. "I am divine."

"Interesting." Jack sits up. "Any particular divinity?"

"I was called Illyria," she replies.

"Lovely name, that." Jack raises the bottle like an offering. "Rum?"

She scowls. "I have no need."

"_Need_, no." Jack lets a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. "But that doesn't mean you can't have a taste."

*

 

_One hour and two and a half bottles later_

Jack drops back into the sand. "I brought another bottle, love. Think I should have gotten two."

Illyria grabs the bottle from his hand. "You are no true servant, but it will suffice." She pulls the cork out, takes a swig. "For now."

"I have to say, Illyria," he leans closer. "Lovely name, by the way." He edges closer. "I have to say, I admire a woman--"

She snarls.

"--a _deity_ like yourself." He grins, dares to borrow a sip from the bottle. "A connoisseur of rum is difficult to find in these parts. Especially one of," he carefully runs his pinky finger over the back of her hand, "such beauty."

"I was both beautiful and terrifying," Illyria mumbles. "Worlds trembled before me."

"Who wouldn't?" Jack inches his hand over hers, up her arm, and over her shoulders. "You're an irresistible force."

"The god-king of a thousand dimensions."

"The personification of a hurricane gone amok."

"Yes." Illyria leans her head back, resting it on Jack's shoulder. "I am that as well."

"Then perhaps," Jack ventures, rubbing the palm of his hand against her bare shoulder, reminding himself, and her, that she is still very, very nude. "Perhaps you might let this one, crass, craven pirate worship you as it ought to be done."

She turns her head, looks at him, and through the drifting haze of the rum, Jack is startled by the inhumanity in her eyes.

Then she smiles.

"I will permit such homage." She takes another draught, then disentangles herself from his arm, and lies back. "You may begin."

*

 

Jack wakes when the sun pries at his eyelids, and Anamaria kicks him in the stomach.

"--or would you rather we spend the rest of our lives here?"

"_Oof_," Jack responds. "Be sure not to kick Illyria," he grumbles, warding Anamaria and the sunrise off with his arms. "She won't take to it."

"Are you still drunk?" Anamaria's voice is shrill enough to stir, and Jack lurches up with a groan.

"No, I am not, and--"

He's alone on the sand.

Unclothed.

And possibly still drunk.

Jack squints up at Anamaria, and grins. "Disregard those last few sentences." He looks around, spots his clothes. "It's time we're off."

Anamaria folds her arms. Smirks.

"Well?" Jack stands, yanking his trousers on, and frowns as convincingly as possible.

Anamaria rolls her eyes. "Aye, Captain." And stomps off.

"That's more like it," Jack mutters. As he pulls on the remainder of his clothing, he turns to face the ocean, and salutes as properly as he can remember.

"Another time."


End file.
